eliot's hair is full of secrets
by moirariordan
Summary: drabble for penmage: Eliot has a secret, a secret which has enabled him to succeed at his life goals.


For penmage at the Fall Fandom Free for All.

--

Eliot has a secret, a secret which has enabled him to succeed at his life goals (which have been decided upon since the age of seven and include not only "be an evil lawyer," "steal a bunch of shit" and "make it with a vampire" but also "punch Phil Collins in the neck" and "score a touchdown at the Super Bowl." He wants to finish but there are no high hopes). The secret is that his name used to be Lindsay MacDonald, he used to be a lawyer, and he has an evil hand that helps him beat people up.

Okay, a lot of secrets.

There are upsides. As a former lawyer-slash-evil henchman, Eliot has many skills (evil hand, not included, as Eliot feels that it technically qualifies as an asset rather than a skill. Talent might be stretching it, but it'd work in a pinch.) including but not limited to:

a) a sense of style

that is actually vital to both of his careers, which is surprising. Or…actually maybe not.

b) organizational skills;

it sounds lame but whatever, Hardison is always leaving Kit Kat wrappers and his weird little computer things everywhere and clutter is just not fucking conducive to a efficient workplace, okay, and you can quote him on that.

c) an unapologetic sense of moral ambiguity;

sometimes he still can't believe Angel fell for that crisis of faith bullshit. What a tool.

d) being a smooth son of a bitch;

which really does more for his reputation than his abilities to perform in his chosen profession, technically, but considering that he started receiving a suspicious influx of full-fee-upfront jobs after all that shit went down with the potential Slayer chick in Vancouver, he's not willing to compromise on this issue, like, at all.

e) a friend from high school who is a passable shaman, and can also do pain-free laser treatment;

fucking tattoos.

f) a finely honed talent for strategy;

let's get one thing straight – he could _probably _pull off around 79% of the cons himself, mostly contingent upon variables such as timing, travel time, wind-chill temperature, what kind of shoes he's wearing, and costumes. But it'd be kind of a pain in the ass, so.

g) selective hearing;

whether it's Hardison's iPod at top volume or screams of agonizing, gut-wrenching pain from Lilah's office, he's pretty good at waiting out the noise without getting pissed off. He does have blood pressure to worry about, anyway.

h) dirt on all present and future influential political leaders and assorted figures in criminal justice systems for the US, England, Belgium, Germany, Israel, Russian Federation, Panama, Mexico, Japan, most of the Eastern bloc and Canada, applicable from 1999 up to 2025;

yeah, he stole files. Duh.

& possibly, considering who you ask, i) even pre-evil hand, he could take down at least 17 vampires on his own, maybe 20 if they're smaller or fledglings or wearing high heels, and even though Holland put down fifteen as his average in his file, it was totally seventeen point seven;

which helps because, when you're staring down the face of several dozen undead former law clerks with only a letter opener to keep from becoming Southern-fried vamp chow, meth heads and hired corporate bodyguards become significantly less threatening and significantly more funny, a combination that Eliot is very happy with.

So, it helps. Not as much as it hurts sometimes, though, especially when somebody leaves writing utensils within his general vicinity. He's definitely sure that Parker was not happy about his writing 'KILL' on her left shoulder blade, although she did hit on him shortly after the incident. Eliot's not sure if that's incredibly attractive or incredibly frightening. He's still debating the two.

But it's mostly a relief to be free of Los Angeles and all the baggage that goes along with it, first and foremost having to answer to fucking 'Lindsey' all the time. Worst name ever – and the whole constant threat of torture and/or unpaid overtime thing was getting a little annoying. And being damned to burn for the rest of eternity in a lake of unquenchable fire, too. (Does that even still apply? He should check into that.)

But all things considered, things went pretty smoothly, a fact which still manages to unnerve him from time to time. But the cons were fun, and the team was enjoyable, mostly, and he was full of appendages and tattoo free, and so things were copasetic. What the team didn't know didn't hurt them and they didn't know.

Until:

1. Hardison Googles him and figures out that 'Eliot Spencer' is actually an alias, which, um, _duh_, but is so caught up in trying to figure out his real name that he doesn't stop whining about it for three days straight, until Eliot gets so fed up that he throws a beer bottle at the wall (evil hand. What can he do?) which makes everybody suspicious and also slightly wary;

2. Sophie, somehow under the assumption that some sort of childhood trauma is at the root of his unexplained anger and increase in aggressive hand movements, attempts to get him to talk about his "feelings," to which Eliot reacts by accidentally groping her (fucking _Brad_! Jesus Christ.);

3. Now with two instances of inappropriate behavior to push him into an emotion somewhere in-between worry and exasperation, Nate responds in a remarkably passive-aggressive manner and gives him stakeout detail for a solid month, not letting him get anywhere near any real action until he's so bored he wants to claw his own eyes out (although he doesn't dare say that out loud, cuz fuck, evil hand) and ends up becoming even _more _disgruntled and _more _annoyed with his own existence until everyone in the group is waiting for either him to blow his gasket, postal service style, or for them all to get arrested, whichever comes first;

and,

4. Spike shows up.

--

No promises on continuing this. Right now it stands as a drabble, nothing more.


End file.
